Fleet winged
are the hasty thoughts,
that fly unedited,
over fields of white
and vanish soon enough
over unremembered horizons....
but oh, the slow budding,
and the blooming of words
that grow and stretch,
across the empty acres
of pounded, ground-up trees
on which the axes of our pens
fall with many slashes,
creating verbal splendour
in shades of black and white.
